


dispute

by arsonistlullabye



Category: Frontier (TV 2016)
Genre: Arguments, Domestic Angst (kind of), F/M, modern day AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-04
Updated: 2018-01-04
Packaged: 2019-02-28 01:39:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13260921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arsonistlullabye/pseuds/arsonistlullabye
Summary: Sokanon reflects on an argument with Michael, and even though he'stotallywrong... He also is.





	dispute

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fic for these two, so if the characterization is off... Sorry. I love them so much and for some reason I sat down and this just happened. I hope to write more for them. All mistakes are my own.
> 
> Also, I am aware that my texting format is weird/ugly. I have no patience to learn how to make it look nice. Don't h8 me.

Sokanon makes it a point to let the door slam behind her. She knows that it bothers Michael, despite this not even being his apartment, and she hopes it sends the message that he’s being terribly unreasonable.

She intends to storm off without looking back, but is pleased that she gives into the urge when she turns to see him flipping her off through the window.

This is the game they play, and even she has to admit that it’s a little unfair: she rarely loses. Not that he makes it easy to win, though.

Michael Smyth is a man of either an overwhelming amount patience, or very little patience at all. Or maybe it’s that there doesn’t seem to be much of a warning when the patience runs thin.

 _“Oh, just admit that you hate me,”_ she hears his voice in her head now, dripping with sarcasm and just a touch of dramatic flair.

She couldn’t tell at the time if he actually believed that. She could have told him that she doesn't hate him, but this is something he should know at this point.

So instead, she challenged him, because that’s always a good idea. _“So, I either want to live with you or I hate you. Those are my only options.”_

 _“No, of course not. I never said that. But I_ was _asking a legitimate question. You didn’t have to laugh it off.”_ There was a heavy pause before he spoke again, his accent slightly thicker than before. _“You make it harder to be vulnerable sometimes.”_

That, she could tell, he did believe.

She would go on to disagree with him and call him an asshole, despite the fact that vulnerability is absolutely not her strong suit, and he would go on to call her a bitch.

A part of her realizes that one of reasons she's so upset about this is because this time she thinks he might be right. He did put himself out there. She probably did react a bit insensitively, and she did make it worse by being too quick to defend it.

Muscle memory gets her to the station while she’s lost in her thoughts, and she has less than a minute to get onto the platform before the train pulls away.

Another bullet point to add to her Pissed List. He almost made her miss her train. He almost made her _late for work_.

His request isn’t unreasonable, she thinks as she takes her usual seat near a window. It’s not like the thought hasn’t crossed her mind before. He’s at her place so often that a lot of his things are already there. She enjoys his company almost as much as she enjoys her solitude, which is saying something. It would make more sense financially. It’s a road they’d eventually cross together, without a doubt.

The more she dwells on it, the more she realizes how stupid all of this is. He just has to go and make everything so damn personal.

They share so much of their space that she doesn’t realize until she’s reaching into her pocket for a piece of gum and finds a pack of cigarettes in its place that the leather jacket she threw on on her way out the door is actually his. She rolls her eyes, but steals herself a cigarette for later.

She instinctively checks the other pocket, and feels some loose change, a lighter, and a piece of paper. It’s a napkin from the bar they frequent, and on it is this terrible drawing of him that she’d drunkenly sketched one night, several months ago. He’d made fun of it, but asked for her signature on it and vowed that he’d keep it forever.

She smiles at the memory in spite of herself. Motherfucker.

She doesn’t give him credit, though. He probably just put it in his pocket and then forgot it was there. And sentiment is useless to her, anyway. She is putting the napkin back into his pocket when her phone vibrates on her lap and his name flashes across her screen.

 

     Michael Smyth:      Sorry I said you’re a bitch.

 

                                  I mean, you are still kind of a bitch. But I’m a bitch too.

It isn’t everyday that he initiates contact this soon after an argument. They usually ignore each other until they’ve both gotten over it, or resolve it in… other ways.

She types out and sends a response.

 

_MAYBE I was being insensitive. I didn’t mean to laugh at you for asking._

 

If he hadn’t gotten so offended the moment it happened, she could have explained then that the way he’d asked had caught her off guard, and she couldn’t tell if he was being serious. She doesn’t tell him that over a text, though.

Instead, she adds:

 

_Can we discuss this later, for real?_

 

_Without clawing at each other’s throats?_

He responds in less than a minute, just as the train stops at her destination. She reads his response as she stands to shuffle to the exit.

 

     Michael Smyth:      Where’s the fun in that?

 

But absolutely.

 

She steps onto the platform and is about to slip her phone into her pocket when she receives one more text from him.

 

     Michael Smyth:      Hey. Don’t you fucking steal any of my smokes again.

 

She smirks.

 

_Wow. Did you only text me an apology so you could make sure I don’t steal your nasty cigs?_

_I’m gonna smoke the whole pack out of spite now._

 

     Michael Smyth:      The arrogance.

Apology hereby revoked.

 

She places the cigarette she’d snagged earlier between her lips and joins the foot traffic on the main street now. Things feel a little more resolved now, and she has to admit it feels a little better than winning.


End file.
